Chapter Text
Viktor’s Pimlico apartment was only 11 minutes by car to Royal Albert Hall on the days when London drivers didn’t have a death wish. Even better, it was 9 minutes away by cab to Viktor’s office at the Victoria and Albert Museum.
If he wished to walk, it was 35 minutes through tree-laden streets interspersed with small nooks of parks and the odd dog walker out with ten different breeds. Maybe it took an hour if he dawdled to coo over the dogs, and then chat up the person on the other end of the leash. The entire setup was perfect for his curator job and his love of poodles and ballet—but not for his pocket when Chris had said he’d be moving out to live with his banker boyfriend.
That was how Yuuri had come into the picture.
“I’m a dancer at the English National Ballet,” he’d answered shyly, when Viktor asked him what he did over that first dinner. Chris had raised an eyebrow at him across their teak dinner table, scavenged from an antique store in Camden, and lovingly re-waxed with elbow grease over a Saturday afternoon.
“That sounds wonderful,” Viktor had replied. He’d shot another look back at Chris, trying to signal Don’t. I want a flatmate, not a boyfriend with his eyes.
Yuuri had already passed many of Chris’ potential housemate tests; an ability to keep his cool at any drama, to pay the rent on time, and to keep his part of things clean. It certainly helped that he was easy on the eyes and “a demon in the kitchen”, as Chris had slyly hinted when first broaching the subject.
“Oh no, it’s all store-bought ingredients, nothing special!” Yuuri had exclaimed when presenting his homemade Napolitan pasta at their first dinner as prospective housemates. It wasn’t much to look at, the dish consisted of spaghetti in a sweet and tangy tomato sauce, with thinly sliced green peppers, mushrooms, sautéed onions, and little cocktail sausages. Nevertheless, Viktor had eagerly twirled up a forkful and upon his first bite, made a sound so filthy as to have its place in a porno.
Yuuri, on the other hand, turned beet red. But that hadn’t detracted from the hint of smugness in his smile. “I’m glad you like it,” he’d said, as if Viktor had not discovered how good food could taste with cheap ingredients from the same round-the-corner Marks and Spencers during his many years as a student. If Viktor’s cheeks had turned a little warm at the sight of Yuuri’s satisfied grin, then only he—and Chris, that brat—knew anyway.
In hindsight, perhaps that dinner had sealed the deal. Yuuri revealed he had a habit of “panic cooking” because of his demanding occupation, worrisome nature and tendency to put on weight easily. Viktor, always one to return favors, made a slimmed-down version of his favorite foods from home the next week as thanks. Babulya would have frowned for his switching out the mayonnaise with an organic brand, and cooking the potatoes differently, but she was dead and long gone so her soul could frown on him from heaven.
The new rental contract was done and dusted the next day, just in time for Chris and Viktor to have a tearful, alcohol-filled night in on the last day of Chris’ lease. Yuuri moved in with his three suitcases the next weekend—and a sizable, very firm-looking mattress.
As part of Yuuri’s welcome, Viktor had cooked up the rare storm of Russian food—herring with a fur coat, Olivier salad, borscht, pelmini, caviar and vodka.
“This is too much!” Yuuri had said, eyes wide. But Viktor noted how he lustily looked at the borscht and pelmini, and brushed off his denials with encouragement to eat.
“I’m sure you’ll work it off in the studio anyway,” Viktor said, winking. Yuuri gulped. “I know I do when I dance.”
In a show of goodwill, Yuuri cooked again on Friday night, enticing Viktor to give up his regular drinks and dance with his clique from grad school for root vegetables lightly dressed in soy sauce with brown rice. And so it went for the next few weeks, when either of them could spare the random evening to cook up a storm.
But this give-and-take of food didn’t manage to last beyond the first three months. The combination of the demands of both their jobs, plus a chance encounter at a bar while out with his colleagues, meant that their dinners eventually trickled down to once every two weeks, maybe monthly if they were lucky. Viktor’s dry streak and lonely nights solved itself, when he found himself a sort-of-boyfriend after spilling a Sex on the Beach on a random stranger in SoHo. Yuuri was busy with rehearsals so he never really remarked on how he rarely saw Viktor at home.
At some point during the summer that year, Viktor realised he had not seen Yuuri in close to three weeks. A quick look at their shared Google calendar and a follow up search out of curiosity revealed that Yuuri was one of the stars of a ballet showcase back in Japan, and had also taken the time to go home. Viktor paused to consider the little twinge in his chest at realising Yuuri hadn’t told him he’d be gone, then shrugged it off and packed his bag for a night at his new boyfriend’s place.
They weren’t really that close, anyway.
As for the boyfriend: Kazimir Janáček was the dark-haired, barrel-chested three-year inhabitant of a cushy penthouse in Canary Wharf and worked sun-up to sundown, which were fairly decent hours for someone in commodities trading. He was originally from Brno, Czech Republic, and liked his lovers like he liked his pale ales: blonde.
In theory, it was all the trappings of a fairy tale meet cute if there was one for Eastern European expats living in London—the shared remembrances of a failing USSR and picking up the pieces of the economy on very little rations and overpriced meat at the supermarket, losing their gloves at school until their mothers tied them with strings through the sleeves of their coats, learning how to drive in their grandfathers’ Trabants and studying hard in order to leave the country. In practice, they met on weekends to try the newest restaurant in SoHo, for Kazimir to spend silly money on cocktails and the newest fusion cuisine in attempts to wow Viktor, or for Viktor to pull him into boutique art galleries, after which they returned to Kazimir’s penthouse for dinner, wine and extremely filthy sex that often left Viktor sore well into Monday and Chris texting him furiously for details.
Their time was like clockwork and cordoned off as “fun hours”, marked by a little colored square in Viktor’s planner scrawled with “KJ” and a heart 💕 – minus the emoji in the Google calendar he shared with Yuuri.
All things considered, Kazimir was a catch in the fast-paced gay dating scene of London. Viktor counted himself lucky, finding a financially well-off boyfriend—partner? Was it too soon?—who might be marriage material if not for the little snag with how he bought art based on speculation about its value rather than any real appreciation, and how he liked beer a bit too much. Viktor could compromise.
It was to Viktor’s surprise that found himself single at the start of autumn, watching a tear fall into his ice cream as he tried to make it through episodes of the first drama he’d found on Netflix. He’d only begun to imagine forever with Kazimir, even vaguely moving out of his apartment to cohabitate with him in that modernist glass monstrosity in Canary Wharf, much like Chris did with Masumi. It just made sense. Over the course of a year, the two of them had fallen into a routine that inspired some dreaming of what came next in the proverbial relationship escalator—at least for Viktor.
The reality was that they had put off meeting for about two weekends by the end of August because Kazimir had a business trip to Dubai to wheel and deal with some investors. Viktor had not complained because his team was all hands on deck to put the Japanese textiles exhibit together by the mid-September opening. Besides, Kazimir had joked that reunion sex was always particularly delicious.
By chance, Viktor had discovered he’d left his favorite pair of socks at Kazimir’s. He wore those to most opening gala dinners for new exhibits, so he’d thought to drop by uninvited and to check in on his boyfriend because Viktor missed him and his warm body and his big—
Only to discover his beloved Czech banker in bed with a woman who Viktor recognised as the blonde secretary from Gachina. In the end, there was so much shouting and door slamming, Viktor hadn’t even found his socks.
In hindsight, he thought he’d behaved himself well–he’d mostly been reeling from the shock, and the nameless woman had done most of the talking to rub how Viktor wasn’t enough for Kazimir into his surprised face. Maybe Viktor accidentally—on purpose—knocked a very expensive and rare Vanda orchid to the ground in his rush to leave. By then Viktor had seen all of the signs rushing towards him as he escaped in an Uber back to Pimlico. There were Kazimir’s hidden looks at his phone during their last few dates, the disinterest in even just kissing like teenagers in the elevator, and how Kazimir had texted very little while in Dubai.
This was how Yuuri found him at 9PM on a Friday night, coming back from rehearsals, pathetically crying into his ice cream.
“Hey,” Yuuri greeted, as he passed by him on the couch. The layout of the flat was such that there was no way to avoid the living room before heading off into the bedrooms. Chris and Viktor had put up with it for the sheer space of the entire place. There was also no way Yuuri didn’t clock the hunched-over posture, the silent tears, and the pint of pistachio ice cream in Viktor’s hands while people said things in important tones of voice on the telly.
“Viktor?” Yuuri stopped in his tracks to wait for Viktor to look up. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine!” Viktor chirped, forcing his lips into a smile. “It’s just this episode, they’re really building up to the climax.”
Yuuri frowned. When Viktor glanced over at the screen, it was to discover the telly set to a scene of two people rolling onto a bed with very little clothing on. Viktor grimaced, too sad to feel embarrassed. Besides, a climax could mean different things! “Oops, I must not have been paying attention. This ice cream is very good.”
“I see,” Yuuri replied carefully. He was silent for a moment. Multiple expressions warred on his face until he seemingly came to a decision. Viktor stopped paying any mind to consider how much of his ice cream had melted and if it was worth still eating it despite the larger volume of tears making it saltier than expected, when he heard Yuuri ask, “Have you eaten dinner yet?”
“Ah? Yeah? I suppose.” The truth was Viktor had had no such appetite after the shock, and had only clocked the time when Chris had called him asking if he had any plans this evening. The depressing answer was no. He didn’t feel like putting on proper clothes and getting ready, either.
Yuuri looked dubious. “Hm. Okay.”
It was to Viktor’s surprise that an hour or so later, while ensconced in his room, furiously and methodically deleting Kazimir’s influence from his social media and camera roll, he received a message from Yuuri.
Yuuri
Looks like I accidentally made a bit too much! There’s soba on the table if you want it
When Viktor did sneak out of his room sometime later, there was a well-dressed bowl of buckwheat noodles on the kitchen island, laden with shiitake mushrooms, bright green edamame, crisp strips of daikon, and garnished with toasted sesame seeds.
Viktor couldn’t help himself; he let out a half-laugh, half-sob and set down to eat.
On busier days, Viktor could be time blind and forgetful, so he managed that by writing down ideas as they came into boxes in his planner and adding them to his Google Calendar. That was how he ended up inviting Yuuri to the opening gala for the new exhibit on Japanese textiles from the 60s; a little on the nose perhaps, but he had wanted to repay Yuuri for the favor his roommate had done him that terrible Friday evening.
“I really don’t want to go alone,” Viktor had admitted after passing Yuuri the invitation with its heavy card stock. “I’ll be working. You won’t need to do much aside from look around. And there’s free catering!”
Yuuri had narrowed his eyes. “Do I have to wear a suit?”
The garment itself left Viktor’s jaw hanging open with its flattering cut and quality material. Perhaps he should not have been surprised; Yuuri was quite easy on the eyes and the few times they’ve both been home on weekends, Viktor had not resisted the opportunity to ogle when Yuuri while he bustled about cooking or doing laundry, his 80s-inspired shorts just on the right edge of tight.
Viktor might not have been in the market for a boyfriend, but no one said he couldn’t look and appreciate what was freely on display. However, Yuuri’s tie was a crime against fashion and good taste. Viktor badly wanted to say something. Only politeness and the fact that they weren’t all that close prevented him.
Towards the end of the night and the upper limit of Viktor’s champagne tolerance, he found Yuuri inspecting a series of mannequins sporting blue jeans illustrating Japan’s historical fascination with raw denim. The color spurred him to remember his complaints.
“You look delightful in that suit but your tie is horrendous,” left his mouth in one breathless stream without much thought. Yuuri blinked twice, then burst out laughing to Viktor’s confusion.
“Have you been holding back since we left?” Yuuri said through his giggles. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Nevermind that,” Viktor whined, reaching out to grasp the offensive accessory in question. He tried to tug it off, to no avail. “Your tie! Yuuri, it hurts my eyes. It is an abomination .”
Yuuri laughed even harder and loosened the knot, allowing Viktor to fully loosen and remove the tie. When the chuckles had left him, he motioned in the direction of the exit. “Alright, time to go home.”
“But you haven’t been to my favourite part of the exhibit yet!” Viktor whined.
A wry look threatened to overtake Yuuri’s face. “Sure, we can look. Then we go home, ok?”
Viktor nodded, before happily skipping his way to the jumpsuits worn by popstars like David Bowie and Elton John. Yuuri followed suit, and when he joined Viktor at the plaque introducing the first item in the glass, Viktor launched into a little intro deserving of some applause for its theatricality. Yuuri certainly seemed entertained and interested, if his thoughtful questions were any indication.
Upon reflection, it was far better than whatever he and Kazimir had ever talked about. Viktor shuddered at the memory of a conversation on collecting art based on price speculation alone.
“I’m sorry about, uh, not being good company,” Yuuri said, breaking Viktor out of his reverie. Had Viktor accidentally spoken aloud? A look at Yuuri’s sheepish expression said no, but Chris had told him he could be quite revealing in the face of too much to drink. “I know you wanted to go with your boyfriend.”
“Upon reflection,” Viktor began, and he took a moment to quell the threatening burn of tears in his eyes. “I never should have gone on a second date. What kind of man buys art like stocks? Oh, I know, I work in the art world, that’s the whole point sometimes, investing in art as a means for capital. The royal family does it! He even had a storage unit for paintings he was planning to sell in ten years—“ Viktor stopped short when he realised he didn’t know where he was going with this tirade, already tired by the number of times he’d run it by Chris.
But Yuuri didn’t look annoyed in the slightest. All he did was nod in understanding, and add “If you enjoy art, you’d want to bask in it all the time.”
“Exactly! And god, don’t get me started on what he thought about NFTs—”
Yuuri laughed. “Sounds like you dated a finance guy tech bro wannabe.” His expression changed to one of distaste. “I know the type. They like to collect things. People.”
“You’ve dated one?”
“Er, I wouldn’t call it a date. More like I’ve met one.” Yuuri was blushing. “But let’s focus on you. That time I came back to you in front of the telly … how are you feeling?”
“That was embarrassing,” Viktor admitted, plastering a grin on his face to brush it off. But Yuuri’s gaze cut true and through him, and so he admitted with a sigh, “My ex cheated on me.”
Yuuri’s mouth fell open. “What an asshole!” Then he clapped a hand right over it, seemingly not planning on having said that. “Sorry, I mean, that was terrible of him.”
Thank god someone else thought so! “And it was with his secretary, also blonde, also Russian, so…” Viktor shrugged. “Not much I could do but end it.”
“I’m so sorry.” Yuuri looked honestly apologetic, but Viktor didn’t want his pity and so he looked away. But he did hear Yuuri quietly add “That really sucks. Are you––I mean, if you don’t mind, I could …”
“It’s alright. I’m working through it. No need to worry your pretty head about it,” Viktor said, aiming a kilowatt smile at Yuuri. That seemed to awe his flatmate into silence. If anything, it dusted a light pink over Yuuri’s cheeks, but that could have just been a trick of the exhibit lighting and tipsiness. “Let’s head back, shall we?”
The ride back was quick and quiet. By then, Viktor was too tired that evening to ask Yuuri’s opinion about the event and exhibit—so he tried texting instead the next morning.
Viktor
Thank you for coming with last night!
I hope it wasn’t boring for you
Yuuri
Oh no, not at all
I liked the catering, though…
Ok, nevermind
But uhm, I learned a lot about Japanese selvedge jeans last night
Viktor
Oh???
You didn’t know about them before?
Yuuri
Do I look like I pay attention to fashion? 😅
Viktor
You could have fooled me
Yuuri
My tie didn’t
Viktor
😭
That’s because it’s an eyesore
It should be burned
Yuuri
I’ll let the tie know
Viktor
The tie didn’t tie itself!
You had some thoughts about the catering?
Once prodded further, Yuuri had incisive opinions on the catering and their “passable katsu, you can’t half-ass these things, Viktor!” If anything, it seemed to warm Yuuri to him some more that Viktor asked what good katsudon, no, “great katsudon, if you have such a strong opinion about it”, tasted like.
Yuuri was more inclined to text than before, if only to let Viktor know he’d made more food than expected, and to have some if Viktor so wished. One of those texts turned out to be “Are you planning to eat at home one of these Saturdays?” So instead of going on blind dates Chris and Mila insisted upon, or skulking around art galleries in SoHo, or spending Friday nights at a noisy bar and feeling a pang of hurt every time he saw a Sex on the Beach in someone’s hands or two men canoodling like they were the only two people in the world, Viktor replied with a date and time.
“I didn’t realize this was a whole production!” Viktor exclaimed when he clocked what was going on in their kitchen. The rice cooker was steaming away, there was a station with bread crumbs and eggwash on the counter, and crusted pork loins sizzled merrily on the stovetop. The smells were glorious. But Yuuri pushed him out of the way before Viktor could say anything further. It made the final surprise all the more sweeter, and Viktor’s effusive “Vkusno!” was all the more heartfelt.
“Oh my,” Viktor said, talking through the food in his mouth. “The way the egg entangles with the pork… and the scallions and spring onions, how juicy! This rice is perfection, not too hard, not too soggy. It soaks up the sauce just right. Yuuri, is this what the gods eat?”
“I’m glad you like it,” Yuuri said, grinning shyly at him over the dinner table. “My mom’s is better, but it sounds like I didn’t do so bad.”
“If this is what your take on katsudon is like, then I get it now,” Viktor said, laying down his chopsticks and fixing Yuuri with a serious glance. “That katsu at the gala was a travesty.”
“A real tragedy,” Yuuri agreed, nodding. “Catered katsudon will never taste the same.”
It was, perhaps, the best home cooked meal Viktor had had in months. His vanity meant he monitored his intake extensively, and his own schedule meant a diet of salads and fruit shakes supplied by the commissary when he could not find the time to put his own meals together. Viktor liked to eat, but food did not agree with his trim waistline, and he said as much to Yuuri.
A pensive look crossed Yuuri’s face. “I have to watch my weight too,” he said, thoughtful. “But it’s nice to spoil yourself like this when you feel down.” At which Viktor winced a little internally, for perhaps Yuuri had noticed his less than chipper mood on weekends which would have normally been spent cleaning the house before meeting with the ex-boyfriend.
Then Yuuri blushed, and Viktor’s heart rate picked up the tiniest bit for how the pink colored his cheeks so charmingly. “Not that katsudon is only for when you’re down. I’ve been meaning to cook this anyway. I miss it, sometimes.”
“Did you eat it often at home?”
“My mom would make it for me after big performances as a reward,” Yuuri replied, starting to put away the dishes in the dishwasher. “But now…” He looked at their window, and at the dark skies of London looming over them. “I’m a big boy. I can make it for myself and for friends.”
Viktor’s heart warmed at his earnest tone. Yes. Friends. “Like me?” he ventured to ask.
Yuuri nodded, and Viktor couldn’t recall ever having noticed Yuuri’s dimples. “Yeah. It’d be nice to be friends.”
They hung around the hallway after putting the dishes away, both of them seemingly unwilling to call it a night despite the ticking of the clock towards 10. “I have Chris to thank, I suppose,” Viktor said. “Flatmates are often hit and miss.” In a reference to what he assumed was Yuuri’s reason for making such a lovely dinner, he added dryly, “Boyfriends are hard enough.”
Yuuri only laughed nervously. “Well, about that—”
“Don’t worry about any awkward mornings,” Viktor hastened to point out. “I’m focusing on myself. I’m entering my self-care era. Reduce alcohol and meat intake, go to the gym regularly, focus on my career. No Grindr.”
“I’m kind of doing the same,” Yuuri admitted. “Auditions are in two months.” He looked down at his feet in their blue socks with poodles of different colors all over them and wiggled his toes. It matched his phone case too, Viktor noticed. “I’d like to get promoted. So I may move around the furniture a bit, and you might hear some weird noises from my room.”
After a few more pleasantries, they bid each other good night and settled into their bedtime routine. Viktor couldn’t stop thinking about the katsudon—whatever words he’d said couldn’t quite match the way it tasted and melted in his mouth. He’d ask Yuuri for the recipe tomorrow.